So, You Want to be a Dragonrider
by Notomys
Summary: So, you think you want to be a dragonrider eh? A light hearted look at candidacy from the point of view of a reluctant Candidate Master. Rated T for Language.


_I realized a little while back that I have a tendency to do fairly depressing pieces. I figure that I'd work on a piece that was a little bit fluffy. I am aware that this is only loosely canon, and that A'vird's language is a little bit modern. I am also aware that there may be some major issues with grammar: working on that. I am not sure what I am going to do about that, but just be warned, this piece is done mostly for the lulz. _

_Oh yes. The world is Anne's, I just play in it. Play nice kids._

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**LESSON ONE: GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN**

Most people do not grow up with aspirations of trying to keep forty adolescents from either a) killing themselves b) killing other people. This guide was not written for those sick individuals whom actively seek this post out. It is strictly for the rest of you poor bastards. My first piece of advice to you is simple. Get out while you still can. While it's impossible for me to know your exact situation, chances are pretty good that there are hundreds of other ways you could become a productive member of the Weyr.

I'll use my own situation as a perfect example of what not to do.

Up until _That Day_ my life was going fairly well. It's impossible for me to say exactly what I would be doing now if _That Day _never would've happened, however I can be fairly certain that it wouldn't involve candidates. Unless of course it involved something scandalous with one of the prettier faces in the barracks, but I digress.

_That Day_ started out just like any other. I'll spare you the unnecessary details. It suffices to say that I started _That Day _as one of the more promising young riders in my wing. By the time _That Day_ had ended both Aberweth and I bore a striking resemblance to raw meat. It had been one of the nastiest threadfalls that we had ever flown, and my wing had the unfortunate honor of being assigned the leading edge. The wind was terrible. A few of the smallest greens in our wing had to be switched out, because they couldn't keep in formation. Even my Aberweth, a well sized brown, had to struggle to keep from being buffeted off course. Injuries that day were doled out by chance. It was impossible to predict where the clumps of thread would blow. I just got exceptionally unlucky.

When I first set to writing this, I was going to make what I'm about to say lesson number one. However, I figured that for most people it goes without saying. If you ever find that the majority of your body is covered with threadscore, it may be time for that final trip /_between_/. Unfortunately I have rocks for brains, and Aberweth isn't any better. I learned later that we were so bad the healers didn't even bother treating us at first: it was obvious that we wouldn't survive. We didn't get the hint.

Despite unfathomable odds we clung to life. We spent months in the infirmary under a feverish miasma of boiled salves and fellis dreams. I honestly don't remember most of it. I just remember vividly wondering when I was going to get to fly again. Once a dragonpair has had a taste of thread they can never go back. The urge to fight it never goes away, even after fighting thread becomes impossible. I never thought that I would long to reek of crackdust and sweat.

R'kul was very polite about it. He came to my room one evening, and had the common grace to change out of his flightgear first. He had a wineskin clenched in his fist. I knew that he bore bad news, "A'vird, I want you to now that if things were different you would've shaped up to be an excellent wingsecond."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've been watching you closely. F'lynn has too."

My stomach dropped at the mention of the Weyrleader's name, although I knew what was coming I couldn't help but ask, "Why?"

"You and your dragon have fought hard. We're all very glad that you pull through, but be honest with yourself."

I felt every single strand of adolescent anger that I thought I had outgrown come back to me, "What in the name of Aberweth's egg are you talking about. We'll be fine in a little while: we were able to circle the Weyrbowl today!"

He shook his head sadly, "A'vird. You've lost an arm," he paused before gaining momentum. One by one he stripped away my delusions, leaving me naked and bare, "You're crippled. Half-blind. Don't get me started on Aberweth. We have all seen his wingsails. They're not going to regrow. You're grounded A'vird."

It was as simple as that. My life as a dragonrider in the traditional sense was over. The only question I had was why I was still alive. I asked Aberweth this. He responded, with the infuriating calm that most dragons tend to posses, **Because you wanted to be**

"Faranth. Why didn't you take me /_between_/. It hurts."

**What's**** to say that /_between_/ wouldn't hurt worse**

I couldn't argue. He obvious still had some kick left in him, and I wasn't about to deny him.

It was sometime after that they that gave me the ultimatum. I had recovered to the point where I could no longer loft around the infirmary. Any Weyr, particularly a Weyr during a pass, didn't have the luxury of caring for people whom couldn't pull their weight. To be fair, they gave me several options. At the time I thought that I had chosen the best one.

Oh Faranth was I wrong.

I should've served as a watchrider in one of the backwater holds.

I should've trained hard and worked to the point where I could fly with the Weyrlings.

I could've said "shaffit" and forced Aberweth to take me_ /between/_.

But no.

I had to bite the bait when the headwoman came up to me. She explained that the candidates were under her jurisdiction, but she already had her hands full. She continued with saying that she thought I would be the perfect individual to take over her duties concerning the candidates, and that it would be a good experience for them to be taught the basics of Weyrlife by somebody whom had actually lived it.

Obviously I wasn't thinking when I agreed.

As you can see, I made several key mistakes. For starters, I got unlucky. Luck my friends is your worst enemy. I recommend doing whatever you can to keep it on your side. I hear that wher-bones work wonders. Secondly, I listened to somebody with a shiny bronze and large shoulder knots. As you'll see soon, when it really comes down to it rank doesn't matter. You have to watch your own neck. And lastly, I panicked. I thought that my life was over and that becoming the master of these candidates was the only way I could continue.

Run away to the southern.

Work with the drudges in the lower caverns.

Raid the nearest holds.

Anything.

Just don't agree to become the Candidate Master.


End file.
